Spot had read about the disaster in the papes. He'd heard about the missing kids near there, too, but since nobody knew what had happened the assumption was that they'd been caught up in the blast and nobody had bothered to report on it because what did anybody care about kids like them.
Spot had agreed with the grumbling at the time, let his boys get it out and then move on, because that was all they could really do when something like that happened. The problem was, of course, that when other newsies talked about 'kids like us', Spot felt somewhat awkward about it. He never let it show, of course he didn't, but inside he knew - he didn't count. If he went missing somebody would care, they'd care a lot.
Because Spot Conlon was a myth. Because he hadn't read the news after picking up his papes the same as all the other kids. He'd read it first thing in the morning at the breakfast table while trying to tune out his father's talk of duty or hard work or good manners or whatever that day's lecture had been about. Because his father was William Randolph Hearst.
It had begun when he was a child, tagging along with his father on a day off from school and seeing the newsies laughing and joking at the distribution gate, he'd been jealous. They seemed to have such freedom, such happiness, they didn't have the weight of responsibility and expectation pressing down on them all the time, they could go where they want, do what they wanted.
He knew, now, how naive he'd been, how many of their hardships and problems he'd never seen back then, but the envy had been enough. He'd stolen some clothes from one of the servant boys and snuck out one morning to join them - he'd chosen the boys selling the World, rather than the Journal, intending to avoid his father (and maybe, just a little, wanting to stick it to him by selling a rival paper) - he'd been innocent and naive and stupid, but they'd taken him under their wing and taught him how to sell and he'd fallen in love with that life, with the sense of family that had been so deeply lacking in his life.
It had started a day or two a week, but by now he'd worked out the right lies to tell at home and at school that he was there every day, sneaking out first thing after breakfast and returning at the end of the day. He'd worked his way up the ranks to be the leader in Brooklyn, the fearsome Spot Conlon (a nickname he'd earned on his first day, and the surname he'd borrowed from an old nanny he'd been particularly fond of) - a far cry from the polite, obedient Sean Patrick Hearst his father thought he was moulding.
He'd kept up his subterfuge for so long he thought he was practically untouchable - until one day he takes the wrong street.
He doesn't realise it's the wrong street, at first, he's just been paying a visit to some of the other leaders and he's strolling through the Lower East Side on his way back towards Brooklyn when a man who isn't watching where he's going nearly bumps into him.
The insult he's about to throw dies on his lips when he looks up and his eyes meet those of his father, and for a split second all he can think is fuck.
Then he's suddenly being yanked sideways into an alleyway, out of sight, and his father is yelling at him. Something about what the hell he thinks he's doing roaming the city dressed like some common street thug and why he's not in school. Spot isn't listening to the words, he's too busy trying to think of a way out of this, an explanation that might spare him a beating, an explanation that will somehow keep his secret.
Umm...it got a bit long I'm sorry XD lmk if you need anything changed/added
Spot had agreed with the grumbling at the time, let his boys get it out and then move on, because that was all they could really do when something like that happened. The problem was, of course, that when other newsies talked about 'kids like us', Spot felt somewhat awkward about it. He never let it show, of course he didn't, but inside he knew - he didn't count. If he went missing somebody would care, they'd care a lot.
Because Spot Conlon was a myth. Because he hadn't read the news after picking up his papes the same as all the other kids. He'd read it first thing in the morning at the breakfast table while trying to tune out his father's talk of duty or hard work or good manners or whatever that day's lecture had been about. Because his father was William Randolph Hearst.
It had begun when he was a child, tagging along with his father on a day off from school and seeing the newsies laughing and joking at the distribution gate, he'd been jealous. They seemed to have such freedom, such happiness, they didn't have the weight of responsibility and expectation pressing down on them all the time, they could go where they want, do what they wanted.
He knew, now, how naive he'd been, how many of their hardships and problems he'd never seen back then, but the envy had been enough. He'd stolen some clothes from one of the servant boys and snuck out one morning to join them - he'd chosen the boys selling the World, rather than the Journal, intending to avoid his father (and maybe, just a little, wanting to stick it to him by selling a rival paper) - he'd been innocent and naive and stupid, but they'd taken him under their wing and taught him how to sell and he'd fallen in love with that life, with the sense of family that had been so deeply lacking in his life.
It had started a day or two a week, but by now he'd worked out the right lies to tell at home and at school that he was there every day, sneaking out first thing after breakfast and returning at the end of the day. He'd worked his way up the ranks to be the leader in Brooklyn, the fearsome Spot Conlon (a nickname he'd earned on his first day, and the surname he'd borrowed from an old nanny he'd been particularly fond of) - a far cry from the polite, obedient Sean Patrick Hearst his father thought he was moulding.
He'd kept up his subterfuge for so long he thought he was practically untouchable - until one day he takes the wrong street.
He doesn't realise it's the wrong street, at first, he's just been paying a visit to some of the other leaders and he's strolling through the Lower East Side on his way back towards Brooklyn when a man who isn't watching where he's going nearly bumps into him.
The insult he's about to throw dies on his lips when he looks up and his eyes meet those of his father, and for a split second all he can think is fuck.
Then he's suddenly being yanked sideways into an alleyway, out of sight, and his father is yelling at him. Something about what the hell he thinks he's doing roaming the city dressed like some common street thug and why he's not in school. Spot isn't listening to the words, he's too busy trying to think of a way out of this, an explanation that might spare him a beating, an explanation that will somehow keep his secret.